No Heroes
by Digger McFoogle
Summary: A young Cadash learns that the Hero of Ferelden was a dwarf, and sets out to find her.


There were no heroes. She knew that now.

The Blight came and went. It must have been two, maybe three years ago now. She'd lost track. The great end of the world that the common folk of Ostwick had been told had about passed by, marked only by the closure of a few trade routes, the gates of neighbouring ports heaving with ships and their Ferelden cargo, and a few, pained messages sent from across the waking sea. She was amazed at how quickly the Carta moved forward from such a momentous event. A Warden had done in the dragon, her mother had said. There was coin to be made before the trade routes recovered, and that was that.

She hadn't questioned it, at first. Lady Cadash, the Queen of her small world, was not one to be questioned after all. Her brothers had been sent to clear the cave-routes between the cities, her prettier sisters had been sent to tease out any secrets, and she had been there, as she always was, at her mother's side, setting up traps for those who would oppose her. Not that many dared. She was impenetrable, solid, and completely in control at all times, whether brokering a deal or a death.

She didn't remember the first time she'd heard rumour of the Warden being a dwarf. She did, however, remember where she heard that she was a woman. Hidden behind her mother's chair, clutching her dagger and her latest flask of knock-out poultice, she heard the dust-towner exlaim that it didn't matter if she had saved the world, the Aeducan whore was casteless and no better than any other surfacer in the eyes of Orzammar. She. She. Her. That tiny detail had changed some half-hearted rumour into a legend.

At first, she simply listened to the lyrium dealers that came to see her lady mother, hiding in shadow and straining to hear any detail of the Hero of Ferelden, as they called her. Then one day, in a rare moment to herself, she had slipped out to the tavern with some of the other Carta boys, choosing a spot near the bard to listen for news. Every round she got in, she would ask the maids what news they had from Ferelden. Most had little, a sighting here and there, a tourney in Denerim, rumours of Seheron, of Weisshaupt, and most improbably of a return to Orzammar.

Then she found him.

He was a baby, barely fifteen if a day, walking the backstreets of the tavern with a bundle and wide, glassy eyes. Even for an elf he had big ears, she had thought on her first viewing of him in the dusklight, and his slight overbite reminded her of a poorly fed nug. She had watched as he sunk further into the shadows as a band of templars passed by, confirming her thoughts. As he shook, freezing cold in his makeshift shelter between barrels of fruit, she had snuck to his side and, once she had convinced him she meant him no harm, had offered him shelter in exchange for his skills.

She cared little whether he was a rebel, a hedge mage, or a scared apprentice. What she did care about was his obvious education. In his bundle he held a range of papers, and she would add to it, stealing documents from tavern tables and the packs of soldiers at the brothel, and together they would sit, him sifting through the chaff until he found news of the great hero. Then they would sit, eat together, and he would read to her, his lilting voice sweeping over the facts and making them fantastical.

She had briefly thought of asking him to teach her, to speed up the process, but then she thought of how easily her mother would spot her eyes shifting over a page. Lady Cadash though not educated in letters was not stupid. She didn't suffer fools, but neither did she want her children to overstep their roles. They were hers, her accessories, not her equals. So to keep her mother in the dark she barely slept, keeping up with her jobs and Lady Cadash's demands in the dusk, and reading with her boy in the dawn.

Luckily for her, the boy earned his keep quickly. A letter from Amaranthine had confirmed the name of the new Arlessa was Aeducan. It was surely her- and Amaranthine was close enough to avoid suspicion.

It was all planned quickly. The boy was a talented forger, and copied the script of a contact from a piece of paper stolen from the fires. The deal was set. The journey was planned. And to be sure, she had asked him to add in a fear of rival gangs and thieves, asking for a specialist to hide in the shadows in case the deal went badly. She waited until all of her brothers and sisters were engaged, and presented the letter. She did not beg to go. She did not grovel. She simply pointed out her talents over her siblings. She was the obvious choice. Her mother agreed.

It was an uneventful voyage, but might as well have been a tempest. Her heart seemed constantly in her throat. A small sea divided her and the hero. That was not so far. Just a small sea.

Amaranthine was smaller than she had expected. She wandered the whole city within a few hours, and quickly found herself a vantage point. She wondered how she would identify her. She'd seen no pictures, heard only the scantest of descriptions.

She did not have to worry.

It was immediate, like a fang to the back of the neck. She knew the moment she saw the lustrous armour that she was looking at her. Dead at her. Her walk was undeniably noble, that was the first thing that struck her. A delicate saunter, even in the armor. That was nobility. That was breeding. She walked with a small human, who beamed at her the whole journey. Sneaking closer to them, she heard the warden speak a lilting, mellifluous address to the crowds that had gathered. Her charisma was undeniable. A born leader. The small human did not take her eyes of her. The warden gave only small glances back, but those glances were filled with such affection.

She was not right.

It was difficult to identify why. A dwarf, and noble. So why did it not feel right, looking at this smiling, charming, and undeniably beautiful woman? Why did she not see the hero?

Through the streets of Amaranthine she followed the pair, as they greeted the locals with their painted smiles and painted armor. She followed them out of the town, down the winding country roads, through the trees, and to a burnt down, hollowed out keep. There was a silence for a moment. Then, without warning, the Hero of Ferelden began to weep.

She felt disgusted as she watched. The cry was guttural, deep and wailing. It reminded her of the mothers of Carta traitors hollering over the death of their child. The warden sank, howling with pain as the small human held her tightly, his face betraying nothing. The warden shook. He held her. And that was all she saw, before she crept away.

She sold most of the lyrium on the way back to a templar addict in Kirkwall, and kept four behind. She gave them to the boy, and told him to say that they belonged to Cadash should anyone come knocking. He said it confidently to her brothers when she sent them to look for it, and they laughed as they cut his throat, and laughed all the way to the tavern. "I told him, we're all Cadash. Knife-ear pissed his pants". She drank to that. Her mother gave her a sovereign and a pair of ear bobs, telling her she should start to make herself presentable if she wanted to stand by her side.

There were no heroes, just those who made their luck last. Those who would do whatever it took. Those who knew how to survive.


End file.
